


A Complaint A Day...

by birdkeeperklink (speculating)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Thorin, Poor Bilbo, Sick Bilbo Baggins, Sickfic, Thorin is a Softie, Thorin taking care of Bilbo, Worried Dwarves, Worried Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speculating/pseuds/birdkeeperklink
Summary: Bilbo complains -- alot-- so when the complaints abruptly stop, Thorin immediately knows something is wrong with him.  He's more than willing to take care of Bilbo, and he may just learn a little something more about his hobbit husband in the process.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 39
Kudos: 1144





	A Complaint A Day...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navyfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navyfeather/gifts).



> Navy -- Thank you so much, hun, for your inspiration and encouragement! <3
> 
> I'm becoming a sickfic addict.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fluffy little piece! :)

Hobbits, Thorin was given to understand, were natural complainers.

Or at least Bilbo Baggins was.

He’d first dismissed the constant tendency to grumble and fuss about everything as a result of circumstance. The hobbit was upset that so many dwarves were in his home, and after that, he was unused to the tribulations of travelling in the Wild. It was a sign of his weakness and his unsuitability for their quest, Thorin had believed at first -- conveniently dismissing the complaints of his fellow dwarves, because clearly it was quite reasonable for _them_ to grumble about saddle sores and the weather. At least they weren’t fussing over missing handkerchiefs. Thorin couldn’t exactly say he was pleased with the constant rain and the trolls and the warg-riding orc pack hunting them, either.

Those assumptions were challenged when they reached Rivendell. There were beautiful gardens and fountains everywhere, the elves were calm and neat and quiet, they were safe from rain and orcs, they were offered warm beds to sleep in, and there was food that, by all accounts, a hobbit should have adored.

_And yet._

“This is really delicious, but it would be even better if they cut the vinegar in the dressing a bit,” Bilbo said cheerfully as he accepted another portion of…green stuff onto his plate.

“The beds are extremely comfortable, but much too large,” he said the next morning, when Fíli and Kíli asked him how he’d slept. “I suppose elves need beds that large, or else their legs would be hanging off the end, but honestly, one oughtn’t need a ladder to get into bed at night!”

“The gardens are gorgeous!” he squeaked excitedly when he returned from an afternoon tour with one of the elves. “Absolutely stunning! They don’t use nearly enough flowers and the arrangement is a mess -- far too many curly paths, it’s enough to make you dizzy. Beautiful!”

Thorin had stared after the hobbit when he trotted off immediately after making this pronouncement.

“Hobbits,” Gandalf said with a chuckle, and Thorin had filed it away as an oddity of hobbits in general, to complain about anything and everything, whether they were pleased or not.

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the dwarves came to ignore it, then accept it, and finally to even find it endearing. It was just Bilbo’s way, and Bilbo was their hobbit. If he wasn’t grumbling and complaining and fussing, then something was really wrong, like when he’d stopped his general complaining in favour of trying to talk them all out of a war they couldn’t win and Thorin out of his sickness. There was real fear, then, though Thorin had only realised it afterward, when his mind was clear. It was the only time he could recall that Bilbo hadn’t once mentioned some inconsequential complaint or other.

Which was why Thorin was alarmed when he realised that it had been two days since he heard Bilbo say something other than “yes,” “no,” or “okay.”

Even now, his husband was poking at his eggs with a blank expression, his eyes far-off as though he wasn’t aware he was even looking at a plate of _breakfast_ without eating it.

Another warning sign if there ever was one -- a _hobbit_ , uninterested in _food_? All of Thorin’s alarm bells were ringing as loudly as all the bells of Dale ringing at once. Still, he attempted to remain calm.

“Is breakfast not to your liking, ghivashel?” he asked warmly, smiling for good measure.

Bilbo jerked, surprised. “Hmm?” He blinked at Thorin, then down at his plate as though just now realising it was there. “Oh! Yes. It’s good. Very good.”

And just like that, he began mechanically eating.

Thorin’s alarm bells were joined by alarm horns and possibly a few drums for good measure. Something was very, very wrong.

They parted ways for their respective tasks of the day, and still Bilbo didn’t scold Thorin or complain or do anything but give him a distracted kiss on the cheek before hurrying off, shuffling through an armful of papers.

Thorin spent most of his morning meeting reviewing as much of the past two weeks as he could remember, trying to recall if he’d done something worthy of Bilbo withdrawing, but he came up blank. That left the possibilities that someone _else_ had done something terrible enough to distract Bilbo from his grumbling, or that something was wrong with Bilbo himself….

“You going to eat that, or just stare at it?” Dwalin grunted beside him. “Be happy to take it off your hands for ya.”

Thorin huffed and parried Dwalin’s encroaching fork with his own. “I’m eating it, get your own.”

He turned back to his own plate, shrugging. “Coulda fooled me.”

Balin sighed from his other side, reaching around to lightly smack Dwalin’s shoulder. “While I can’t agree with my brother’s methods, he is right, Thorin, you do seem distracted today.”

He frowned, debating with himself for a moment. He wasn’t the only one who loved Bilbo dearly -- perhaps one of their friends would have an insight into Bilbo’s sudden silence.

“It’s…Bilbo, actually,” he said, shaking his head.

The whole table froze. The entire Company could rarely get together for meals, and today’s lunch was no exception, as Bilbo, Glóin, Dori, Óin, and Bofur were all missing for one reason or another, but the remainder turned to stare at Thorin with wide, alarmed eyes.

“What’s wrong with Bilbo?” Nori demanded hotly, clenching his fork tightly. “What’ve you done to ’im?”

Ori rolled his eyes at his brother. “Are you ever going to stop jumping to that conclusion every time something goes wrong? It wasn’t _Thorin’s_ fault that Bilbo caught a cold, it was Kíli’s!”

Kíli shot him a wounded look. “It was an accident! I didn’t realise it was going to get so cold out, or that it was getting so late….”

Fíli snorted, almost choking on his stew. “It was the middle of winter and you asked Bilbo to go for a walk with you after dinner, what did you think was going to happen?”

“I took an oath!” Nori shot back at Ori, ignoring the princes’ developing squabble. “When Bilbo and Thorin got married, I took an oath, remember? There wasn’t no dwarf to stand for Bilbo an’ his family wouldn’t come here, so I spoke for ’im, I did! It’s my solemn duty to look out for ’im and make sure Thorin’s treatin’ ’im right!”

Bifur barked out an agreement in Khuzdûl, thumping Nori on the back hard enough to make him cough.

“Of _course_ he’s treatin’ him right!” Dwalin growled back, bristling. “Why would he be worried about ’im if it was his own fault?”

Balin was not nearly as loud, though somehow still _appearing_ as loud. “Precisely! If Thorin had done something to Bilbo, he wouldn’t need to worry about what was bothering Bilbo, because he would already _know_.”

That made Nori and Bifur settle a bit, mulling that over.

In the ensuing lull, Bombur spoke up tentatively.

“What’s made you worry about Bilbo?” he asked, his brow wrinkled with concern. “Is he sick?”

They all shut up and turned to stare at Thorin again. Evidently, in their rush to assign blame to someone for upsetting their hobbit, it hadn’t occurred to them to ask that. Sometimes Thorin wondered if there was a connection between a great fondness for food and what Bilbo called “hobbit sense,” as Bilbo and Bombur were both very avid bakers and eaters, and Bombur occasionally displayed that same no-nonsense approach to problems that Thorin associated with Bilbo. He was grateful for it at times like these.

He frowned, scratching at a dent in the table. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps? Although he hasn’t been sneezing or coughing this time.”

“Well, what _is_ he doing?” Ori asked, covertly sliding a book out of his tunic and flipping through it.

Thorin decided not to ask if it was a general healing book or if Ori was in the habit of keeping a manual on hobbits on his person. Perhaps later -- if such a manual did, in fact, exist, Thorin might like to consult it from time to time.

“It’s more about what he’s _not_ doing,” he said unhappily. “He’s…well, he’s eating, but not _enjoying_ it as he should. He didn’t even complain about his breakfast this morning, although I had to prompt -- ”

He was cut off from continuing by the collective gasping of Kíli, Ori, Bifur, Bombur, and _Dwalin_ , of all people.

Balin blanched. “He didn’t complain about it? Not a bit?”

“Maybe he was just distracted,” Fíli said, but his tone betrayed how much he doubted that.

Nori narrowed his eyes at Thorin. “Are you going gold sick on us again?”

Thorin dropped his fork. “What? No!”

“Of course he’s not!” Dwalin barked. Then he paused, turned and looked Thorin up and down, and nodded once to himself, turning back to Nori. “Of course he’s not!”

Thorin huffed, rolling his eyes, and resisted the urge to start throwing things.

Kíli wasn’t to be distracted this time, thankfully. “What about last night? He must’ve complained about something last night!”

Thorin shook his head solemnly. “No.”

Bifur gasped again, pressing his hand to his mouth, and the others shot each other worried looks.

“In fact, I can’t recall him complaining about anything for the last two days.”

They were silent as they thought back, most of them shaking their heads as their memories confirmed the same thing.

“Neither can I,” Balin said, stroking his beard.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Kíli said, shoving Nori’s shoulder. “I didn’t do anything two days ago! Tauriel and I were in Mirkwood, hunting, so I couldn’t have upset him when I wasn’t even here.”

Nori tapped his cheek with one finger. “Fair enough.” He turned pointedly to Fíli.

He huffed, shaking his head. “I can’t think of anything I’ve done, either. In fact, I think he should be happy with me, since I was the one who was waiting for him with something hot to drink when he returned from Dale with Óin.”

Thorin sat up straight at that. “He _was_ in Dale with Óin two days ago -- they were helping the healers to treat some ill human children. Perhaps that was upsetting to him? Or perhaps something happened while they were in Dale -- a confrontation with one of Bard’s healers, or something along those lines.”

“I’ll fetch Óin -- he’ll know if something happened!” Kíli said, and shot out of his chair so fast that it fell over.

“Were they treating something catching?” Bombur asked quietly, thoughtfully. “Maybe Bilbo is sick after all.”

Thorin felt the blood drain out of his face. Bard had contacted them for aid in treating the illness because there were more children ill than his limited number of healers could handle -- perhaps that was because it was particularly virulent? Dwarves were resistant to illnesses, so it was entirely possible for Bilbo to have caught something while Óin remained well….

“Óin will be able to tell us that, too,” Ori said with a nod. “And if not, then we still need to know what else might be bothering Bilbo. I’m going to find Dori -- he and Bilbo were working on a project together, so perhaps they had a tiff that Dori didn’t think too much of at the time? It’s happened before.”

Bifur rapidly announced that he was going to find Bofur, since he was Bilbo’s best friend, and see what he knew, too.

They left with more care and dignity than Kíli, but still hurried.

“I suppose we ought to have a full set,” Balin said, heaving himself out of his chair. “I’ll fetch Glóin and we’ll all meet back here. Someone will have to keep Bilbo occupied, though -- remember what happened when we didn’t keep an eye on him while planning his birthday celebrations?”

The remaining members of the Company shared a collective groan. There wasn’t much of a “surprise” about the surprise birthday party when Bilbo walked right in on them making decorations, wrapping presents, and arguing over what his favourite flavour of cake was.

“To be fair, Dís was _supposed_ to be watching him,” Dwalin said. “It was _her_ fault.”

“You’re only saying that because she’s not here to point out that you were supposed to _tell_ her that she was supposed to be doing that,” Nori said, grinning.

Dwalin reddened, grumbling into his beard.

“The fact remains,” Balin said with a pointed look at Nori. “Who’s going to keep Bilbo occupied while we investigate? Dís can’t be appointed this time, as she is still with Dáin to renew the trade agreement, and Tauriel is in Mirkwood, so it must be one of us.”

“I’ll do it!” Dwalin and Nori said at the same time.

“That’s not a good idea,” Bombur murmured.

Thorin raised a hand. “He’s _my_ husband -- I shall go and look after him, and after dinner tonight, I will get a report from one of you. In the meantime, he is in meetings for the rest of the afternoon anyway -- as am I,” he added with a grimace. “So we needn’t worry about that until dinner.”

Balin nodded. “That’s settled, then. Thorin, you’d best be off, then. I’ll go and fetch Glóin as quickly as I can.”

Thorin desperately wanted to stay -- he wanted to know what they all turned up about Bilbo -- but he wanted much more to be the one who stayed with Bilbo this evening. He wanted to try to comfort him, to coax him to eat his dinner, and to be with him, even if Bilbo didn’t want to share what was upsetting him. So, he reluctantly hurried off to his next meeting, since that was the trade-off for being the one to be with Bilbo.

It was an important part of being king to listen to the various guilds and committees, to hear out petitioners and make sure that every being in his kingdom felt that their voice was heard. It was rare for Thorin to feel that any of his meetings were torture. Even the longest, most boring tax review was interesting to Thorin -- not in and of itself, perhaps, but for ensuring that there were no loopholes to allow any of his people to be swindled, and that it was not impossible for his poorest citizens to get by. There was always a reason for Thorin to be invested in any given meeting, so he could sit through any of them.

Today, however, they felt like torture. He found himself counting down the minutes until he could declare that it was getting late and they should call it a day. It seemed like it had been days instead of hours since he and the others made their plan by the time he was finally free to leave.

He hurried through the corridors, arriving breathless in his and Bilbo’s rooms -- only to sigh, his shoulders slumping, when he realised he’d arrived first. It was a telltale sign when the fire was low and there was no smell of anything baking or rising -- Thorin had learned to love the smell of yeasty things, as the smell of breads rising meant Bilbo was home. It was also Bilbo’s habit to stoke the fire to roaring and put the kettle on. Thorin decided to change while he waited, and then stoke the fire _for_ Bilbo.

It was nice and roaring when Bilbo finally arrived, rubbing his face with one hand. His armful of papers seemed to have grown since this morning, rather than shrinking as it was supposed to.

Thorin rose from his chair to intercept him. “Here, ghivashel -- let me take care of those.”

Bilbo jumped -- apparently he hadn’t noticed Thorin there -- but released the papers without protest. “Good evening, love,” he said absently, kissing Thorin’s cheek before he moved away. “How was your day?”

Thorin’s concern knew no bounds. It wasn’t that Bilbo wasn’t a considerate husband -- he _always_ made time to listen to Thorin’s review of his day when they hadn’t spent it together, and to let Thorin rant and rage about it if necessary. It was just that Bilbo generally vented about his own day _first_ , being much more excitable in general and prone to complaining about irritations both small and large.

After he’d blown off either steam or general excitement, then he was willing and able to listen to Thorin’s problems or happy news. It suited both of them that way, as Thorin was always happy to hear about Bilbo’s day and his thoughts and feelings, and even if he was upset about something, he knew Bilbo would be a better listener afterward than beforehand.

He set Bilbo’s papers on their desk, watching as Bilbo shuffled into the bedroom to change. His skin was prickling with the _wrongness_ of it all. Even when Bilbo occasionally caught a cold, he was livelier than this.

Bilbo emerged from the bedroom in one of his softest shirts, rubbing his face again.

Thorin took him by the shoulders gently, lowering his head until their foreheads touched. “We can eat here, if you like, Bilbo,” he murmured, stroking Bilbo’s shoulders with his thumbs. “I’m sure the others will understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Bilbo’s eyes had closed at the contact, but he blew out a breath. “No -- no, Thorin, we’ve been planning for the whole Company to get together for a meal for a month. We can stay in tomorrow.”

Frowning, he straightened. “If you’re sure, ghivashel.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”

Still, he leaned on Thorin’s arm as they walked down.

Bombur had gone all out for the evening, apparently pushing his staff a little harder towards vegetables than normal. Thorin might have grimaced at all of the green he could see on the platters if he hadn’t known that it was an effort to interest Bilbo in eating more.

He smiled at Bilbo as they sat down, touching his shoulder. “Look -- yams in brown sugar. It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?”

Bilbo’s return smile was small but sincere. “Yes, it is.” He looked around. “There doesn’t seem to be much here that you enjoy.”

Bofur plopped into the seat on Bilbo’s other side, answering before Thorin could. “Ah, don’t worry about that, Bilbo! Óin says we need to eat more veggies -- i’n’t that right, Óin?!”

Óin lifted his ear trumpet. “Eh?”

A chuckle went around the table, and Bofur good-naturedly waved Óin off.

“Ye’d think he could invest in a better ear trumpet,” Bofur said, echoing a complaint Bilbo had often made himself.

“Hmm,” Bilbo hummed, fiddling idly with his fork.

Bofur looked over Bilbo’s head at Thorin, his brows creased and his usual smile absent. Thorin could do no more than shake his head -- he was as much at a loss as everyone else.

“Have some green beans, Bilbo!” Dori cried, shoving the pan toward their end of the table. “They’re delicious! Even Ori’s enjoying them, aren’t you, Ori?”

Ori looked as green as the beans. “Uh-huh,” he said weakly.

“Maybe later,” Bilbo murmured, poking idly at the yams Thorin had spooned up for him, his chin propped on one hand.

Dori looked crestfallen. Ori patted him on the back and bravely ate another green bean, which seemed to cheer his brother up a little.

“I like these…er…leafy…looking things,” Glóin boomed, holding up a piece of -- Thorin wanted to say lettuce?

“Cabbage, _Adad_ ,” Gimli said, looking proud at his knowledge. “It’s roasted cabbage!”

Bombur coughed into his beard. “Stewed, actually,” he whispered, but Gimli and Glóin were too far away to hear.

“You like cabbage and other…leafy things, right, Bilbo?” Glóin asked, while Gimli passed the bowl down the table.

“Mm,” Bilbo hummed.

Thorin spooned some onto Bilbo’s plate anyway. “At least try a little?” he murmured. “For Bombur’s sake, if nothing else. I’m afraid he’s a bit hurt by the fact that we can’t tell a carrot from a radish.”

That livened him up for a moment. “ _I’m_ a bit hurt by that, so I don’t blame him. They don’t look anything alike.”

Thorin tried not to grin too widely at the success, shrugging with false nonchalance. “They both come out of the ground.”

Bilbo just sighed. “I suppose,” he said, dimming again, though he did at least eat a couple of bites of the stewed cabbage. “It’s very good, Bombur.”

Bombur blushed into his beard and muttered a thank you, as he always did when Bilbo complimented his cooking. He seemed to think of himself as an amateur and Bilbo as a master of the cooking and baking arts, no matter how many times Bilbo told him otherwise.

They all looked even more worried than before, though like Thorin, they were all trying to hide it. Bofur especially looked upset, but he pasted on a smile and gave it another try.

“Bilbo -- look at this!” He stuck two carrots under his lips so that they protruded ridiculously. “Warg fangs!”

This was a dumb joke that usually sent Bilbo and Kíli into an uncontrollable giggling fit, for reasons that were beyond Thorin. Kíli still snickered into his hand, despite his worry, trying to stifle it as best he could.

But Bilbo just smiled faintly. “Oddest-looking warg I’ve ever seen,” he said, attempting a light-hearted tone.

Bofur stared as Bilbo went back to his meal, and shot a helpless look at Thorin after watching Bilbo stir the contents of his plate for a while.

A pall settled over the table -- only Bilbo didn’t seem to notice. Ori fidgeted, and Fíli stared sadly at his plate while Kíli whispered something in his ear, and Dwalin was staring at the ceiling with his jaw set the way he did when he didn’t want anyone to know he was upset. Nori seemed to be going over his memory again, if his glazed-over look was any indication, possibly double-checking that he truly hadn’t done anything to anger Bilbo. Bofur wouldn’t stop fussing with his hat, and Bifur was muttering and gesturing to himself, apparently engaged in an internal argument, which was something he hadn’t done since the battle. The rest of them just watched Bilbo mournfully.

Balin was the one who got up his courage. Being of a diplomatic bent of mind, he had adapted to Bilbo’s hobbit habit of occasionally being very direct, and he was often the spokesperson for any group he was a part of, so it seemed almost natural that he was the one who asked.

“Bilbo, are you upset with us?”

Bilbo jumped, again, and looked around with wide eyes. “What? No! No, of course I’m not upset with you! Why would you think that?”

Balin hesitated. “You just don’t seem…yourself.”

He sighed, some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“But -- ” Kíli stopped, biting his lip, when Fíli shook his head rapidly at him, and then apparently decided to go ahead anyway. “But you’re not eating and you’re not complaining, and usually when you’re tired, you do both _more_.”

Bilbo went pink. “I do not!”

Thorin touched his shoulder. “You do, Bilbo. It’s odd for you to be so quiet and listless. We’re all concerned for you.”

His eyes searched Thorin’s face, and finally he slumped, leaning into Thorin’s hand. “I really am tired,” he said, “and I don’t feel very well. And my back is itching today.”

Óin heaved himself out of his chair immediately, despite the fact that Bilbo had spoken very quietly and he wouldn’t ordinarily have heard. “Let’s have a look, then, laddie!”

Bilbo squeaked, tugging his shirt back down. “Right here in the middle of the dining room?! I think not!”

Óin started to protest, but he subsided at a look from Thorin. They all ought to know better than to cross Bilbo’s hobbit sensibilities by now.

“We can go back to our rooms so he can have a look at your back, ghivashel,” Thorin said gently, helping Bilbo from his chair.

The walk back to their rooms was much more brisk -- apparently, Bilbo was either urged on by the embarrassment of nearly losing his shirt in front of everyone, or by the hope of relief. Thorin rather hoped it was the former and not the latter.

He was clearly relieved to be sitting back down once they arrived, slumping a little on the edge of the bed. Thorin gave in to the urge to help him with the buttons of his shirt, and he was more than a little concerned when Bilbo merely gave him a tired, grateful smile, instead of scolding him for getting up to “shenanigans” in front of Óin, as he usually did when he was ill and needed help with his clothes.

Óin looked grim and unsurprised when Bilbo’s back was bared to him. “Just as I thought,” he said, and set to rummaging through his bag full of healing supplies.

“What?” Thorin asked.

Óin didn’t appear to hear him, so Thorin leaned over to peek at Bilbo’s back himself. He hissed through his teeth when he saw it.

Bilbo grimaced. “That bad? It itches all over.”

Thorin swallowed, attempting to smile and failing. “It’s…nothing Óin can’t handle, I’m sure.”

Or Tauriel, if it came to that. Thorin would ride to Mirkwood to fetch her back himself if he had to.

Óin snorted at Thorin, fixing him with a gimlet eye. “Too right, I can handle it. Calm down, yer Majesty.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, huffing, but he couldn’t help feeling comforted. If it was mild enough for Óin to tease him by calling him “your Majesty” in private, then it wasn’t time to get upset yet.

It just _looked_ awful -- a horrible red rash, all over Bilbo’s back, like someone had taken a small needle and methodically pricked him over every square inch.

“This is just the thing the little ’uns in Dale had,” Óin continued, sticking his hand in a tub of strange green paste. “I should’ve known you’d catch it, too. I should’ve made Gimli come along.”

“I _wanted_ to come,” Bilbo said hotly, then peered over his shoulder curiously as Óin began rubbing the paste on his back. “I was starting to wonder if it was that, but all the children in Dale were coughing and sneezing, and I haven’t had any of that, not a single sniffle, and all of them had rashes on their chests and arms, not their backs.”

Thorin looked at Óin expectantly, his own curiosity piqued. He didn’t know much about illnesses, but how could it be the same thing when Bilbo wasn’t showing the same symptoms?

Óin nodded. “Sometimes illnesses present a little different in one or two patients than the rest. Not even the elves seem to know why. It just happens sometimes. In your case, you’re older than everyone else who got sick, and you’re a hobbit to boot, so it might be either of those things, or both. But the rest of the symptoms are there, and the rash is the same, even if it’s in a different spot.”

Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “Oh, dear -- does that mean I have to drink that smelly tea?”

Óin and Thorin shared a grin -- it wasn’t _quite_ up to his usual standards, but that sounded more like their hobbit.

“I’m afraid so,” Óin said, wiping his hands on a cloth and putting the jar of paste on the bedside table. “Smelly tea three times a day, water the rest of the time, the paste every morning when you wake up and at night before you go to bed, eat as much as you feel up to, and _no work_. You’re to _rest_ as much as possible,” he added fiercely when Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll assign a guard to make sure you do if I have to.”

Thorin stirred at that. “That won’t be necessary -- _I’ll_ be here to make sure he rests.”

That satisfied him well enough; they all knew how worried Thorin had been, so unlike when Bilbo just had a cold, they knew there was no worry of the two of them using the excuse for some “private activities,” rather than Bilbo resting.

Bilbo scowled. “Firstly, I don’t need a babysitter, and secondly, that’s even worse because then there will be _two_ of us not getting any work done! We’re behind as it is!”

Thorin’s lips twitched as he valiantly attempted to suppress a smile. “Bilbo, you know I love you, but you’re even less trustworthy than I am when it comes to obeying orders to rest. After the battle, you were found rolling bandages and cooking when you were supposed to be sleeping so your head would heal, and the last time you had a cold, you cleaned our rooms, _including_ the fireplace, the royal dining hall, the kitchens, and were well on your way to cleaning the upper dining hall for the miners.”

He grumbled at that, but couldn’t argue. Óin was so angry he tied Bilbo to a bed in the healing chambers where he could keep an eye on him for the remainder of that day, ignoring Bilbo’s threats, pleadings, and attempts at bribery. Thorin had come to his rescue…eventually. It was only a cold, but at the same time, Thorin had feared risking Óin’s wrath turning on _him_ if he didn’t feel Bilbo had rested enough, as he, too, was well known for sneaking out of bed when he was supposed to be resting.

“Besides that, we are always behind,” he added, shrugging. “Balin will bring it to my attention if there is something that can’t wait, but a few days isn’t going to hurt anything.”

Bilbo folded his arms, sniffing and twiddling his nose. “Fine. But I won’t pretend to be happy about it.”

Thorin’s smile escaped then, despite his best efforts. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

The first day was undoubtedly the worst. Bilbo’s back was still itching, despite the first couple of treatments administered, and he wasn’t sleeping well because of the mild fever. His head had started aching, too, and he hated lying on his stomach, which was necessary because of the paste on his back. Add it all up and you had a very, very cranky hobbit.

Thorin surrendered around dinner time, when Bilbo still hadn’t uttered more than “yes” or “no” all day, going to eat his meal around more communicative people while Fíli and Kíli took a turn trying to entertain their other uncle.

The two of them were subdued and worried when Thorin returned.

“He didn’t even laugh at my Thranduil impression,” Fíli said, bewildered. “He _always_ laughs at that, and then scolds me for being rude.”

“And he didn’t correct me when I mispronounced all the elf names on purpose,” Kíli added mournfully. “He just sighed.”

Thorin frowned. “But he did speak to you? He didn’t ignore you?”

_That_ would be extremely worrisome -- he’d never known Bilbo to ignore _anyone_ on purpose. It would be the height of rudeness, and a definite sign that he was getting worse, not better.

They seemed to realise that as well. “Oh, no, no!” they hastened to assure him.

“He didn’t ignore us at all,” Fíli said quickly. “He just wasn’t laughing or having fun. He seemed very miserable. He tried to put on a brave front for us, though.”

Kíli nodded. “Yes, he did say, ‘Very well done, boys,’ when we finished our little skit. He just didn’t laugh at all.”

“We tried to tell him he could go to sleep if he wanted to, but he said he could sleep later.”

Thorin nodded, stroking his beard. “I see. I’ll see if I can get him to sleep. Thank you both.”

They murmured good nights and hoped Bilbo would feel better soon. Thorin hugged them both, which seemed to cheer them up a little, and fetched the next cup of “smelly tea” from their kitchen before he tentatively poked his head into his bedroom.

Bilbo was staring at the wall, one arm hanging off the bed, his cheeks flushed but his skin otherwise pale. He looked miserable.

Thorin shook his head, walking over and setting the tea on the table so he could stroke Bilbo’s hair back.

Bilbo looked up at him. “I hate being sick,” he said flatly. “It’s stupid.”

“I know,” Thorin soothed. “But it’s only a few days, Óin said.”

He sighed again. “Time for more smelly tea?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Thorin waited hopefully for a complaint, but only got another grimace. They worked together to get the tea down him, Bilbo’s nose wrinkled with disgust the whole time, and then Thorin got to work washing off the old paste and applying fresh while Bilbo resumed staring at the wall.

“You’ll feel better soon,” he said, as much to himself as to Bilbo.

Bilbo sniffled, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry.”

Thorin paused, leaning over to look him in the face. “Why are you sorry? You can’t help being sick.”

He sniffled again, avoiding Thorin’s eye. “I know I’m being difficult.”

Well.

Thorin finished rubbing the paste in and wiped his hands off as quickly as possible, kneeling beside the bed so he could bring his face to Bilbo’s, cupping his cheeks and rubbing their noses together. He could feel the heat rising from Bilbo’s face and made a mental note to ask Óin if there was anything else they could do for the fever.

“You’re ill,” he said softly. “You’re allowed to be as difficult as you want.”

Bilbo whined a little and pressed his forehead against Thorin’s. “Let’s just skip the next three days and I can be all better already. Then let’s take the next three days after that off and make up for lost time.”

Thorin chuckled. “That sounds like an excellent plan to me, Master Burglar.”

He snorted wetly. “What did I burgle now? I can’t actually steal the time, as much as I wish to.”

He hummed back, pressing a kiss to the end of Bilbo’s nose. “My heart, as always.”

That finally won a laugh from Bilbo, a short, sharp bark that left him with a smile on his face. “You old sap.”

“ _Your_ old sap,” Thorin correct haughtily, and grinned when Bilbo laughed again.

Unfortunately, their contentment didn’t last. In the middle of the night, Bilbo woke, restless and flushed with fever, and Thorin fetched Óin out of bed.

The old healer was less than thrilled about being woken so late. “I told you, the tea -- ”

“Isn’t working,” Thorin said curtly. “He needs something else for the fever, or he’s not going to get any sleep and he’s not going to get any better.”

That made Óin sober and awake at once. “I’ll brew up something stronger,” he said, and went off to get what he needed.

One of the things he needed was something Bombur had in his stores, since Óin didn’t normally need it and it was a spice more commonly used in cooking -- Thorin didn’t really understand it, but he trusted what his Company told him. Bombur being woken meant that soon after, Bifur and Bofur were awake and knew what was going on, and after that it was pretty much inevitable that Bofur would go and rouse Glóin, and Glóin of course woke his wife and son. Gimli immediately went to tell Fíli and Kíli, and from there, Thorin was absolutely and completely unsurprised to find the entire Company and their families in his and Bilbo’s sitting room, whispering loudly enough to wake the dead as they wondered if everything was all right and what they could do.

Thorin raised his hands for silence and got it, eventually. “Bilbo just needs something a little stronger to help bring his fever down,” he said, much quieter than any of them were when attempting to whisper. “It wasn’t letting him sleep, so Óin is making him a stronger tea for it, that’s all.”

Ori was twisting and wringing his hands, pressing himself between his brothers for comfort. “Then he’s not…dying?” he whispered so loudly that Thorin wondered why he hadn’t just shouted in the first place.

He rolled his eyes, too tired to censor his reaction. “No, he’s not dying. Everything is fine.”

“Everything except you lot being so loud,” Óin growled as he emerged into the sitting room.

“Isn’t that Bilbo’s line?” Bofur said with forced cheer.

“Bilbo’s too tired to say it,” Bilbo moaned, dragging himself into the room.

Thorin nearly tripped over himself to help him over to his armchair. He tucked a blanket around him once he was settled, for good measure, and handed over the cup of tea Óin held out to him.

Bilbo took it with a weary but grateful smile, curling his hands around it and hunkering down in the blanket.

“The rash is clearing up,” Óin offered when Thorin shot him a sharp glance. “We’re almost out of the woods. Just need the fever to break and he’ll be on his way to recovery. It’ll probably break after he can get some proper sleep.”

Thorin nodded his understanding, but Bilbo moaned again, his eyes closed and his head tipped back.

“Obviously I didn’t complain enough this year,” he groaned.

Thorin blinked at Óin.

Óin blinked at Thorin.

Thorin turned to the room at large, and found all of them blinking at him expectantly. He raised his hands to show that no, he had no clue what that meant.

“Perhaps that fever is higher than we thought,” Dwalin said, reaching for Bilbo’s forehead.

Bilbo opened his eyes just in time to dodge. “Get your dirty paws off my face. I can still smell what you had for dinner. And why do you say that?”

“Because you’re not making any sense,” Kíli said brightly. “And that’s what people do when they’re delusional with fever. Just ask Fíli.”

Fíli nodded sagely. “Only a fever could have made me wonder why Gimli’s cooking wasn’t served at Durin’s wedding to a prickly plant. No Durin ever married a prickly plant. The fever made that up.”

Bilbo stared at them like they were delusional with fever right at that moment. “My fever isn’t _that_ high.”

Thorin offered him an indulgent smile, rubbing his shoulder. “Of course not. It’s only that we don’t understand what you were thinking that led to your comment about not complaining enough,” he finished rather lamely -- he didn’t see what sense that made, either. They all loved Bilbo and found his complaining endearing, but that didn’t mean they wanted to hear more of it than necessary!

Bilbo turned his bewildered gaze on Thorin. “I was thinking about the same thing we were talking about -- me being sick. It was a joke, sort of.”

That didn’t clear the matter up at all. Thorin struggled to come up with a coherent response when all his mind was producing was alarm bells, urging him to get Bilbo back to bed at once.

“Oh! You mean it was a joke because you stopped complaining once you got sick?” Bofur guessed, although he was still obviously confused, scratching at his chin and blinking like a lost goat.

“No,” Bilbo said, expression twisting until he rather resembled a confused rabbit -- not that Thorin would ever tell him so.

“Either you’re very sick, or we’re missing something important, Bilbo,” Balin said patiently. “What is the significance of you complaining in relation to your illness?”

Bilbo shrugged a little, and Thorin moved quickly to tug the blanket back up over his shoulder.

“The same as anyone means,” Bilbo said, as though he thought this obvious. “Don’t you stop complaining once the bad fortune hits?”

Realisation did not exactly dawn, but Thorin felt that an important connection had been made, all the same.

Nori guffawed. “Don’t you remember bein’ around all of us after the battle? I know you had a head wound, but you can’t have forgotten all the moanin’ and complaining that went on in the healing tents.”

“Wait,” said Thorin, raising a hand, his mind working over this new information. “You stop complaining once bad fortune hits -- what does that mean? Do you believe -- Bilbo, do you believe that complaining wards off ill luck, like a fortune stone?”

It was a superstition among some dwarves that carrying a small stone carved with runes against misfortune and bad spirits would keep bad luck away. Now that he was thinking about it, it made sense that hobbits might have their own superstitions.

Bilbo nodded. “Of course. Every hobbit knows that if you don’t complain about things, then it might seem like things are _perfect_ , and it’s when everything’s perfect that everything goes wrong. That’s why even when things are going well, you’ve got to make sure to point out things that aren’t _just right_ \-- even if you have to look for the smallest things possible.

“Especially at important events like weddings!” he added, warming to his subject. “It was before my time, but everyone knows that not one guest at Balco Hornblower and Daisy Grubb’s wedding said a word against a thing, because it was such a beautiful day and such a beautiful wedding and everyone was so happy, and the newlyweds were held up by robbers the next day and had their savings stolen, their smial washed out in a great flood a month later and nearly drowned them both, and they couldn’t grow a single thing in their garden or have a child for the next seven years. They might have been saved a lot of grief if their parents had been unhappy with the expense, or if Balco had complained about his waistcoat being just a smidge too tight!” He sighed, shaking his head. “I never put too much stock in it, but you can never be too careful! Better safe than sorry, as my father always said!”

Thorin was vaguely aware that he was staring. He didn’t feel too bad about it, as all the rest of them were staring, too, and a few of them even had their mouths open. He couldn’t entirely blame them, as _so much_ was making sense now. His mind was whirring with it, as years of complaints suddenly gained context.

At the beginning of the quest, when Bilbo complained _so hard_ about everything from the moment he handed over his contract -- from his point of view, he was warding off bad luck on the road ahead. Then later, when his complaints became more understandable as their hardships grew -- it wasn’t just the dwarves getting used to him, it was that ill luck had found them anyway, and Bilbo had real things to complain about, rather than making things up to try to keep things from getting any worse.

And, perhaps the thing making all their eyes mist -- that Bilbo had only complained more and more as they repaired both the mountain and their friendships, about things that were increasingly petty. Thorin didn’t know what the others were remembering, but for himself, he thought of their own wedding day, when Bilbo claimed that he was dissatisfied with the cake, the decorations, both of their outfits, the weather, the guest list, and the menu, for a wide variety of reasons, all while he glowed with joy. He could recall countless mornings together where Bilbo cheerfully denounced the tea as too sweet and the eggs too soft, and nights where they lay down to sleep in one another’s arms while Bilbo happily announced that the sheets were scratchy and the pillows lumpy, or perhaps the next night the bed was too firm and the fire too warm, or he claimed Thorin snored and their decorations were ugly. He never wanted any of these supposed defects corrected, but he dutifully mentioned them anyway -- from his point of view, safeguarding his and Thorin’s happy life together.

He buried his nose in Bilbo’s curls, humming his contentment and pressing kisses to Bilbo’s neck. “Ghivashel.”

“Silly dwarf,” Bilbo said testily, but he leaned into the kisses.

Dwalin made a sound suspiciously like a sniffle, but he turned away before Thorin could confirm.

“Our hobbit,” Dori said, caught between pride and sentiment.

Kíli’s eyes brightened and he sat up straight. “Wait, does this mean that you don’t really hate my song about trolls, you were just complaining so it wouldn’t get ruined?”

“No,” Bilbo said flatly. “It’s a terrible song.”

“It is,” Ori agreed. “Please never sing it again.”

Kíli turned to his brother for support, but Fíli was already shaking his head. “Even if you hadn’t tried to rhyme ‘snot’ with ‘caught,’ nobody wants to be reminded of how bad they smell.”

There was a chorus of laughter at this, but Óin hushed them a moment later.

“Now that Bilbo’s finished his tea, it’s time for him to get back to bed,” he admonished, when Bofur protested that he hadn’t got a chance to sing _his_ song about the trolls yet, to see if Bilbo liked it any better. “He can hear your song tomorrow, now off with ye!”

“I highly doubt _any_ song about trolls will be any good,” Ori said as he helped usher everyone else out.

Bilbo yawned hugely, covering his agreement.

Thorin freely admitted that he hovered after the rest of them left, shadowing Bilbo’s steps as he shuffled back to bed and tucking him in carefully, gathering him into his arms after they were settled back into bed.

Bilbo already had his eyes closed, but he sleepily patted Thorin’s hand where it rested over his belly. “’m not going anywhere. My silly dwarf.”

Thorin kissed one of those lovely pointed ears. “Amrâlimê,” he murmured.

Bilbo reddened, as he always did when Thorin used that particular endearment for him -- always in their private, intimate moments, as Bilbo had nearly burst a blood vessel when he learned that Thorin was calling him _my love_ in public. “Ghivashel” was allowed around the Company and their families, largely because Bilbo had overheard Glóin calling his wife that several times in public settings, and so he couldn’t take issue with it without claiming that Glóin was being inappropriate. In public, at parties and gatherings and such, Bilbo allowed “mudùmel” at most. Apparently, by hobbit standards, being referred to as his greatest comfort was a compliment, and nothing to be embarrassed about.

It was possible that he would never understand his hobbit. He was looking forward to spending the rest of his life trying.

“Silly dwarf,” Bilbo muttered again, snuggling closer.

Thorin chuckled. “Do hobbits have other endearments, besides calling their loved ones foolish?”

It was a conversation they’d had many times, and Bilbo gave the same reply as always.

“None that you’d appreciate -- unless you _want_ me to call you my little cabbage, or my roasted pigeon, or my sweet honeysuckle.”

“No, thank you,” Thorin said dryly.

Bilbo smiled, and was soon asleep.

Three days later, the rash and the fever were both gone. Still, the dwarves were collectively holding their breath, as Bilbo had spent enough time sleeping that he hadn’t yet made any ridiculous complaints.

Thorin had had an early meeting, so he hadn’t seen Bilbo that morning, so he was as much afraid as the rest of the Company when his husband arrived for lunch.

Bilbo’s face was twisted into a grouchy frown. “Why didn’t any of you wake me? I’m well again, I could have gone back to work!”

This was encouraging, but they were not yet ready to be hopeful.

“We just thought one last lie-in would be for the best,” Kíli said tentatively. “We thought you could get back to work this afternoon, after having enough sleep.”

Bilbo harrumphed, settling into his chair and reaching for the mashed potatoes. “I’ve slept enough to last me a month! You ought to have woken me. Good gracious, who made these potatoes?! These are full of lumps!”

There were no lumps in the mashed potatoes.

Slowly, Thorin began to smile.

Bilbo pulled the gravy boat over and squawked. “And this! This is shameful! There’s a skin on the top. Well, I suppose it will do, but it’s really not fit to be seen!”

There was no skin on the top of the gravy.

Thorin’s smile widened.

“I thought it was all right,” said Bombur, but his face was as relieved as everyone else’s.

“Of course you would -- you’re fond of that lad you’ve got making these sorts of things,” Bilbo grumbled between hearty bites of the food he claimed was inedible. “I suppose everyone has an off day. Though there’s no excuse for the layer of dust on the statues in the hallway. I’ll have to head one of the cleaning crews myself, one of these days. Can’t have the royal wing going to seed -- what will the elves think when they stay? It’s as bad as having the Bracegirdles claim you keep a messy house. Elves are gossips to give any of them a run for their money, that’s for sure! Except for Tauriel, Kíli, you know I think she’s quite a decent sort -- but the rest of them! No, no, it will never do. Something will have to be done about it.”

The statues in the main hall of the royal wing had just been cleaned and polished that morning, and Thorin had actually noticed how they shone.

“Of course, ghivashel,” he said warmly.

Bilbo flashed him a smile and carried on with his tirade, resuming with complaints about the shift rotations in the mines and how it made foot traffic impossible to navigate, which was completely untrue, as the dwarves had long ago figured out how to stagger the schedules to prevent those sorts of problems.

The Company exchanged content smiles and listened happily as Bilbo caught up on a week’s worth of complaining.

All was right with the world again.


End file.
